


Lest the Fire Consume

by the_ragnarok



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Pre-Slash, Soulmates, Translation Available, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:18:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Derek recognized his mate, and the time Stiles recognized him in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Six

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Да гори оно огнем](https://archiveofourown.org/works/642835) by [sihaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sihaya/pseuds/sihaya)



> This starts out pretty fluffy, but will get fairly angsty soon - rating and tags _will_ change with future chapters, please heed (there will also be notes in the chapter headers). Also unbeta'd, as a work in progress, feel free to point out any errors you see in the fic.
> 
> Title from Tirza Atar's [Ballad for My Grown Boy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QmGyNj_tdBk).

Derek's mom has left him in the produce section for a minute while she grabs some milk. He's old enough that he can stay there without her holding his hand. It's a point of pride. He's loafing by the eggplants, tapping his fingers over the edge of the counters, and finds himself walking forward without aim.

Sort of without aim, anyway. There is a tiny thumping sound somewhere close, and Derek wants to know what it is. It matches his tapping.

"Derek!" he hears from a few steps ahead, and looks up. Mrs. Stilinski beams at him, her brown eyes crinkling at the edges.

Derek smiles back. You can't not like Mrs. Stilinski, because she likes everyone. Knows everyone, too; she's the children's librarian, and she always has a kind word and a good book waiting for Derek. And sometimes a cookie, even if she makes him go outside to eat it and wash his hands after.

It's been a month since Derek visited the library. They were away from town, visiting relatives, where Derek could run in the woods with Laura and all their cousins, snapping at rabbits and pretending to hunt deer. Fun as that was, it's still a relief to be back in his own woods, where he knows all the good corners to curl up, watching owls hunt mice and reading by moonlight.

Mrs. Stilinski has grown larger since Derek last saw her, her belly all big and swollen. It's where the thumping is coming from, and without thinking, Derek reaches for it.

"Derek!" His mom materializes behind him. "We do not touch people without permission." Her voice is sharp, and Derek cringes. So much for being allowed on his own in the supermarket. "Rachel, I am so sorry."

But Mrs. Stilinski just laughs. "It's fine. He's more polite about it than the average adult, actually." She takes Derek's hand and guides it to her stomach. Derek spreads his fingers, gasping when he feels movement.

Mrs. Stilinski smiles wider. "He kicked! I think he likes you already," she tells Derek in a confiding tones. "You could be my boy's big friend when he comes out, couldn't you, Derek?"

Derek nods and ducks his head, grinning. His mother sighs behind him, but it's a fond sound. She pulls him by the collar, gently because there are humans watching and they'll think she's hurting Derek if she pulls hard enough for him to feel it. "You're very kind, Rachel."

"Nope," Mrs. Stilinski says, and winks at Derek. "Just happy to see my friend again."

Now that Derek knows that thumping for a heartbeat, it's easy to follow, even as he trails after his mom to get the rest of the groceries.


	2. Eleven

On Halloween eve, Derek is alone. Laura went out trick-or-treating with friends, and wrinkled her nose when Mom suggested Derek join them.

That's fine. Derek didn't need to go, anyway. He's a big kid, eleven now, and he can be by himself. Prefers it, most of the time. And tonight is a good night to be out alone, the air crisp and clear with autumn. A pleasant chill goes through Derek when he shifts. He sniffs the air, attempts a hesitant howl that turns into a yelp mid-sound because he stepped on a hedgehog. 

Also, there’s a foreign sound, something that doesn’t belong. Derek’s ears prick. A heartbeat, and it’s not pack.

But his hackles aren’t rising, which is weird, since normally he’d have to deliberately force himself to act calm at such an intrusion. It takes him a moment to place that heartbeat, and the mumbling he hears overlaying it, hushed. 

It’s the Stilinski kid. Stiles. Derek knows him since Stiles has a habit of prowling the children’s section of the library for people who’ll read to him. Even though Derek hides in the beanbag chair next to the fire escape door, Stiles finds him every time, waving some book at Derek and giving him a _look_. The kid’s eyes are huge, like something Derek didn’t even believe possible outside of cartoons. Refusing isn’t an option.

(Although Stiles does have a tendency to pick out the books Derek’s too old for but still hasn’t stopped loving. Last time, Stiles came by with _Where the Wild Things Are_. How was Derek supposed to say no to that?)

Derek is tracking Stiles down before he even thinks about it. There aren’t any predators around, Derek excluded, but it’s close to deer mating season and the bucks can get aggressive. Even if almost everything that could hurt him is asleep, it’s still _night_ , and Stiles is out, alone – Derek listened for other human heartbeats, and found none – in the woods. Not good survival practice. 

As Derek lopes close, he can hear Stiles talking to himself softly, singing something nonsensical about piles of candies. Derek skids to a halt and comes out to where Stiles can see him. 

Stiles looks up and visibly jerks back, lip trembling. Derek looks down at himself, realizes he’s still got his fur on, and shifts back. “Stiles?” He crouches. “Stiles, it’s just me.” Derek attempts a smile.

Stiles’ formerly-trembling lip now sticks out in a pout. “I don’t like your costume. It’s ugly.”

That hurts, more than it should, but Derek tells himself that Stiles is just a stupid baby who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Stiles crosses his arms. “I can be where I wanna.”

 _Can not_ , Derek doesn’t say, because unlike some people in this conversation he is not five. Instead he tries, “Where are your parents? Shouldn’t you be trick-or-treating?”

Stiles scratches his head, looking up. “I _was_. With my dad. Then someone started talking to him, and it was boring and I went to the next house. And they were out of candy, so I thought I’d go to your house.”

Derek wants to ask, _How do you even know where my house is?_ and gives up on it because Stiles will probably just shrug like he does when Derek asks him how Stiles found Derek’s most recent library hide-away or what happened to the last of the cookies Mrs. Stilinski brought. And then start talking about dinosaurs, probably because when you’re five that counts as a good distraction and Stiles is a little too sneaky for his own good.

He opens his mouth, but can’t remember what he meant to say because Stiles is shivering. “Are you cold?” Derek says. “I’ve got a coat, it’s just a little way over there.”

Stiles trots along behind Derek. “You’re not even wearing a shirt. Aren’t you cold? My mom tells me she feels cold just looking at me when I go out without a hat.”

Derek grunts. He’s seen those hats. They have bobbles. He can understand why Stiles would forgo wearing them.

They get to the clearing where Derek stashed his clothes. He drapes his coat on Stiles – actually it’s just a hoody, but it appears to do the trick – and puts his own shirt on, since Stiles argued for it.

Stiles gives him an appraising look, oddly adult. “How did you get your costume off so fast, before?”

Derek shrugs.

“I wanna know.” Stiles blinks at him once. “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. I can do this forever, just so you know. Tell me, tell me, tell me—“

“It was CGI,” Derek growls, and hopes Stiles doesn’t actually know what that means. 

Miraculously, Stiles accepts that. “It wasn’t really ugly.” He hunches in the hoody, wrapping himself tight in it. “It was cool. Show me again.”

“I’m not really supposed to—“ 

Stiles is doing that thing again where his eyes seem to take up most of his face. Derek gives in and shifts, baring his fangs at Stiles.

The kid grins impossibly wide. His face is now evenly comprised of eyes and teeth, with a small section devoted to dimples. “ _Mega_ -cool.”

Derek tilts his head aside modestly.

Stiles keeps chattering for a little while, but he’s winding down, clearly past his bed time. Derek sighs and scoops him up, walking homewards. Stiles is light and impossibly warm, his heart beating close against Derek’s chest. Stiles’ hair has a grassy smell from walking in the woods, and there’s a stray twig sticking to his shoulder.

It’s probably too late to call the Stilinskis, Derek thinks. Stiles will probably have to spend the night over. That’s okay. He can sleep in Derek’s bed, and Derek could sleep on the couch downstairs. Unless Stiles gets cold, and needs to be kept warm. Then he and Derek can share. Derek’s good at sharing beds, all his cousins say so, he doesn’t snore or hog the blankets.

But he only takes a few steps before he hears the voices. Strangers, and a lot of them, in his woods. This time Derek’s hackles _do_ rise. 

Stiles puts out a sleepy hand and pets Derek’s cheek. “You’ve gone all fuzzy,” he notes, sounding quite fuzzy himself.

“Yeah,” Derek grits out. He can hear the strangers calling out Stiles’ actual name, the one neither of them can pronounce. Serves them right if Derek doesn’t give him back, they don’t even know what to call the kid.

But then he hears Mrs. Stilinski calling out, “Stiles, Stiles,” in a high voice that sounds like it could break any minute, and Derek suddenly feels awful. She must be so worried, with her son out lost where there are dangerous animals and pits to fall into and werewolves that want to keep your kid for themselves forever.

He changes direction, only remembering to shift back into his human face at the last minute. Stiles’ hand is still on his cheek, warm and slightly sticky. The heat of it remains even when Derek relinquishes Stiles to his mother, now crying with relief.

She gives Derek a long look, clearly wondering what _he’s_ doing out this late, but she doesn’t ask, because she’s cool like that. Derek doesn’t mind giving Stiles back, if it’s to her.


	3. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains **underage** , canon character death, angst, and is potentially triggery. Please see end notes for clarification.

Summer is golden and bright. Derek’s dad is watching over the grill, turning steaks with a considering purse of his lips. Derek lounges a few feet away, out of the smoke’s reach, and stares at the sky. He can hear a jumble of family voices, still, and he turns and runs for the woods on a momentary whim.

“Be back for lunch,” his father says. Derek nods, even though he knows it won’t be seen.

He doesn’t understand when it all started turning so _hard_. He loves his family, he does, but there are so many of them and they’re so _loud_. Derek just wants an hour where he can hear himself think. That can’t be too much, can it?

He runs away from voices and heartbeats, into the deep woods where the light is muted and the ground is cool with moss. A vole skitters away and Derek snaps at it, half-heartedly, not really wanting to ruin his appetite for lunch. Besides, he likes raw meat fine, but he hates it when the fur gets stuck in his teeth.

In a clearing a few yards away Derek hears another heartbeat, familiar if too quick for comfort. Derek hesitates, and runs towards it. He wants peace and quiet, and while Stiles couldn’t give him the latter if his life depended on it, he brings the former without ever meaning to. Even though he’s just eleven and Derek is sixteen and it’s really kind of weird if Derek thinks about it too much.

So he doesn’t. Fuck it. Derek likes Stiles, okay? He just enjoys his company. That’s all. He’s allowed.

Something’s not right, though. Too-quick heartbeat, as mentioned, and rapid breaths, and there’s something salt-smelling…. The bottom of Derek’s stomach drops with apprehension. But he goes in the clearing, anyway.

Stiles is hastily wiping his eyes when Derek walks in. “What,” he says, hoarse. “A guy can’t sit by himself in the woods these days?”

“I try, but some kid keeps stealing all my spots,” Derek says. 

Stiles snorts in appreciation, sprawling back on a smooth rock. His face lands in a sunbeam, and he jerks away from it, looking at the light as though it’s personally offended him.

Derek raises an eyebrow.

Stiles purses his lips. “I should stay out of the sun,” he says, soft. “Melanoma kills one out of fifty Americans every year.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say, so he just sits closer. It wasn’t melanoma that got Mrs. Stilinski, Derek knows. But Stiles has taken to memorizing all sorts of cancer statistics in the last few months.

“Do you ever wonder what we’re for?” Stiles is looking up, face turned away from Derek, but Derek can still smell the salt of unshed tears.

“Who’s _we_?” Derek stalls for time, because he doesn’t want to say _for each other_ and he doesn’t know how else to respond to that.

“You. Me. Everyone.” Stiles kicks at the grass. “You know what, I’ll tell you what we’re for: nothing. One big, fat, stupid, pointless—“

Derek’s heard enough. He moves to kneel over Stiles. “That’s not true.” And he knows it’s cruel, that he has no right, but he needs to say it. “Your mom made everyone’s life a little bit better. She made _you_. Are you calling that nothing?”

“Has to be.” Stiles’ voice breaks on that. “Because now she’s gone, and there’s nothing _left_.”

“You are not nothing,” Derek growls. He pins Stiles down by his shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. 

Stiles’ pupils have blown wide, but he’s still a smartass, because otherwise the world might have stopped turning. “Double negative. Man, she would’ve hated that, wouldn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “She’d have hated this existentialist bullshit worse, though.”

Stiles blinks, a couple tears spilling down his face. He doesn’t seem to notice though. “Wow. Two-dollar word there, my friend.” His arms snake behind Derek’s back, and Derek yields to gravity, to Stiles, who is just as inescapable and incomprehensible.

This is better, this Derek knows how to do: wrap Stiles up, let him shake everything out in Derek’s arms. Words never work right, but Derek knows how to hold. Up until Stiles’ scent changes from sorrow to something else, something Derek is only just starting to be familiar with, and his aimless shaking turns into a shy almost-thrust of his hips.

Derek recoils like he’s been burnt, heart close to bursting out of his chest, because his first impulse was to lean closer, to kiss, to _bite_. 

He gets up and runs, cursing himself all the while, because he can still smell Stiles’ loneliness and bewilderment and embarrassment. He’s just a kid, he didn’t mean anything, he was only trying to, to distract himself—

Shit. _Shit_. Derek stops in the deep wood and smothers a howl in his chest. The last fucking thing he needs is the entire clan coming to check up on him.

He’s had dreams. He can’t remember what happened in any of them, only knows that he woke up sticky and half-satisfied, half-yearning for something he couldn’t even describe. But now he knows, it’s all slotting into place and Derek _doesn’t want any of it_.

Well. He wants Stiles. Or would, if Stiles weren’t _eleven_ and grieving for his mother. Wants him anyway. He knows that Stiles is his mate, has known it for what feels like his entire life, but he never understood what that _means_. 

Right now, it means he needs to stay the fuck away from Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underage for 11-year-old Stiles having undescribed naughty thoughts about Derek and slight groping, and 16-year-old Derek realizing that he's attracted to Stiles (and freaking out about it). Deals with the aftermath of Stiles' mom's death.


	4. Twenty-two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mentions of bb!Derek/Kate. Also Derek being a creeperwolf in canonical amounts. 
> 
> Deepest thanks to Adelaide, who gave this a look and reassured me it isn't terrible.

Derek sits, cross-legged, on the ground beneath Stiles’ window. Up there Stiles is typing a mile a minute, hopefully looking up the effects of colloidal silver like Derek asked him rather than trolling ChatRoulette.

Okay, possibly _asked_ is a bit… inaccurate. It might have been more like _pinned to the wall and growled_. But there’s no getting anything out of Stiles otherwise, these days, and this is something that might very well save lives eventually.

The tapping from upstairs ceases. Derek gives a cursory listen, but judging by Stiles' heart rate it seems he's neither playing nor browsing porn. Hopefully he's reading: fine. As a matter of fact, Derek can do some reading himself. He pulls a small, cloth-bound book from his jacket's inner pocket.

Technically, Derek is researching, too. Admittedly the chances of anything from the _Völsungasaga_ showing up in Beacon Hills are slim to none, but Derek's not putting anything past his shitty luck.

He's reading about Brynhildr, locked behind a circle of flames, when something blocks the overhead light. “If you're going to creep on me,” Stiles says from his bedroom window, “you might as well do it where it's warm.”

Derek hesitates for a moment before tucking the book back and leaping. Stiles' room is familiar by now, would be comforting if Derek were still capable of comfort. At least it's not damp in here. Stiles gestures at the bed and plunks back at the computer chair. Derek scans the tab titles: argyria, chrysiasis, something about circus freaks and “the myth of vampires and porphyria”. Huh. Looks like Stiles did as requested. “Found anything?” Derek asks, because it's only polite.

"Not much that's helpful.” Stiles folds his legs, crossing them neatly. He's skinny enough that he can still fit in a desk chair like this. “Lots of blue-skinned people, which is entertaining, don't get me wrong. Apparently it's harmless to normal humans, except for the aforementioned case of the blues. So I figure we want to cross-correlate with something that's poisonous to normal humans and accumulates in the same places, preferably another heavy metal. So for the next stop I was thinking radiation poisoning.” Stiles gives a tiny shudder at that. “Which is why it's possible I'm procrastinating just a tiny bit.”

Derek gives him a flat look. “Don't.” He pointedly goes back to his book, ignoring Stiles' displeased noise. The translation is old and not very good, but Derek loves the story. Mythology is useful sometimes. Other times, though, it's just the fairy tales he'd loved as a kid by another name.

Harsher and bloodier, yes, but isn't that what growing up is?

Eventually, Stiles huffs and turns to him again. “What do we need it for, anyway? If anybody got hit by that, we'd know, wouldn't we?” His expression turns doubtful at the last word.

"We need to be prepared.” The Argents like to tell their captives what to look forward to. Derek's enforced stay with them was, in some ways, illuminating. “This isn't something we want to look up last-minute.”

Stiles scrubs at his barely-there hair. “Right. Uh. So I should mention that, at least as far as effects on humans go, there's no known cure? Apart from laser treatment to, you know, de-bluify people. Which I doubt would be helpful in our case. Is there some kind of cure for silver in solid form? Maybe we can work up from that.” He's turning to tap the keyboard as he talks, frowning. 

Derek takes a deep, quiet breath. Stiles is bitter with the pills he's taking, sour with anger and teenage hormones. Growing up changes scents, your environment, what you eat – 

“Sunflower seeds,” Derek says. Stiles turns back at him, eyebrow raised. “They're supposed to be good for--” but Stiles snaps his fingers until Derek goes quiet, swivels back to the computer.

On the screen, Stiles has a list of foods rich in selenium and vitamin E. “I've seen it mentioned, but it didn't seem... credible. Hah, because _credibility_ , that's the one constant in my life these days.” He turns to Derek, smirking. 

Stiles' eyes are warm, though. And while his scent is different, his heartbeat has only grown into itself, deeper and slower but ultimately the same. Derek moves closer, unthinking, and Stiles flinches. It's just the tiniest movement, controlled quickly enough, but Derek could hardly miss it. 

Derek gets the fuck out. 

He stops halfway to his house, crouching beside a tree. Shit. He forgot his book at Stiles'. Never mind. He'll go back and get it later. Sneak into Stiles' room like Rapunzel's fucking prince. Only that's not the right story, is it.

Once upon a time (Derek tells himself, because he knows what happens to those who forget their history), there was a kid named Derek. He didn't know what desire was until it fell on him all at once on a summer's day. He'd hid it inside until the warmth of it turned to insufferable heat, and then there was someone waiting.

Derek hadn't wanted Kate but Kate had wanted Derek, and that was good enough, an outlet for frustration bursting at the seams. He'd been so _grateful_ , he spilled out everything to her. She made him feel like his skin was on fire. 

Apt, that.

That's all gone now; can't burn ashes. There's nothing left of Derek but anger and this scrabbling will to survive, like something too dumb to realize it's dead already. Stiles is right to be afraid of him. Derek makes a fairly compelling cautionary tale.

He reaches the Hale house winded, although he didn't even break a sweat on the way. Attempts to steady himself on a half-burned-through support column, which snaps and cracks under his weight. Derek lets himself fall, sprawling on the floor.

He pushes up, and finds himself face-to-face with a dandelion sprouting amidst the charred wood.

 _Oh, look,_ Derek thinks bleakly. _It's a metaphor._


	5. Twenty-four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains **graphic violence**. See end notes for detailed warnings.

The Martien pack haven't made themselves any friends coming into Beacon Hills. It didn't help that they made their introductions by setting several buildings on fire.

The buildings were abandoned, but that didn't make Derek any more positively inclined toward any of them. Especially not their Alpha. Donna Martien is taller than him, spears him with her gray eyes while they negotiate.

"Don't call it that,” Donna says, with a wave of her hand. “I prefer to think of it as coming to terms.”

As in, terms of surrender. Derek bares his teeth, as much as he can without showing outright disrespect. Donna's in her sixties, and Derek is very uncomfortably aware that she's probably eaten Alphas more powerful than Derek for breakfast. Must have, to survive this long. 

"They don't have to be _bad_ terms,” she says, leaning against the wall of Derek's boxcar. “I'm not trying to humiliate you. There would be a place for you and yours. You've met Kenny.” Donna gestures at her second, who looks distinctly unimpressed. “You could mate with her if she'd have you. I wouldn't forbid it.” 

Derek doesn't dignify this with an actual answer. “Beacon Hills has been Hale land for decades.”

"And now it's crawling with hunters.” If Donna doesn't mean to humiliate him, she's doing a shit job. The pity in her eyes is all too evident. “From what I hear, hunters were actually the least of your problems in the last year. I've got the experience and the manpower to bring this territory back to its prime.”

"Wow, yeah,” Stiles says, because apparently some part of _shut up and let me handle this_ wasn't clear to him. “Like you did with your previous territory, which is why you're still over _there_ and not bothering us over _here_. Oh, _wait._ ”. He snaps his fingers. Derek has no idea why he even brought him, except that of his pack, Stiles could be relied upon not to get angry and attack any of their... guests.

"Hale, control your pet.” Donna doesn't even grace Stiles with a glance. “You've heard what I have to say. I'll give you a week to decide.” She turns and leaves, at that, not even bothering to make her threats explicit. 

" _Pet_?” Stiles sounds outraged. Derek doesn't sigh, but it's a close thing.

~~

A week after that, there's no attack on any of Derek's hideouts. Donna doesn't come back to hear Derek's refusal. Everything seems peaceful.

His Betas crack jokes, leaning on each other companionably. Scott has disappeared, no prizes on guessing where. 

In the corner of the boxcar, Stiles purses his lips and checks something on his phone, thumb-typing obsessively. Derek goes to look over his shoulder. Stiles is looking at an aerial photo of Beacon Hills, emitting disgusted little mutters about scrolling on smartphones.

"Got anything?” Derek asks.

Stiles doesn't even move, heartbeat remaining at the same slightly elevated rhythm as before. “Nope. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.” He lets out a frustrated sigh.

Derek's mouth thins into a sharp line. “We need to fortify here tonight,” he decides. “They think we're weak. To make their point, they'll attack us at our weakest.” His hand finds its way to Stiles' shoulder, jerking away when Stiles' breath catches. 

"Go home,” Derek says softly. “Stay in tonight.” 

Stiles turns his face up, eyes guarded. For once in his life, he doesn't argue.

~~

Derek and his Betas stay up through the night, to much grumbling. Derek finally lets them get some sleep, in shifts, when it's ten AM the next morning and there's no sign of the Martien pack.

By the time they notice Stiles is missing, it's late afternoon.

~~

"Are you sure this is the place?” Scott hangs awkwardly just behind Derek, whispering like someone who doesn't really get the idea of enhanced hearing. Derek turns to glare at him, wishing for the hundredth time he'd just left Scott behind. Allison was actually doing better than him at both keeping up and staying quiet.

"The map location was on his phone with a big red circle around it marked _Martien headquarters_ ,” Derek says, in an actual whisper. “So, yeah.” 

They'd found the phone discarded in the woods not far from the ruins of Hale house, next to Stiles' parked jeep. When Isaac tried tracking him by scent, he ended up inhaling wolfsbane powder and passing out.

"They wouldn't hurt a human,” Scott says. “Right?” His voice is full of such desperate hope that Derek can't even answer. 

He doesn't even know why Scott sounds like that. Stiles has been hurt plenty of times, fighting beside them (and, occasionally, against them). You'd think they'd be used to it by now.

You'd think Derek would be. Derek growls and kicks open the door to the abandoned radio station with much more force than necessary. He almost falls in; he can hear the broken remains of the lock clicking inside the door. Someone already broke into this place.

"Sounds like the right place,” Derek says quietly. He takes a step inside.

He can smell the blood right away. It's thick on the air, enough to make him dizzy. Human, without a doubt, and lots of it. Derek breaks into a run.

He has to slow down when he reaches the room, nearly slipping on half-dried blood. He can hear Scott choking softly behind him, but doesn't have time to check on him.

There's a body lying on the desk in front of him, head missing and ribcage forced open. Derek finds himself staring at the guy's shoes. He can't smell anything through the taste of copper in his mouth and the clothes have been bloodied beyond recognition, but Derek knows these sneakers.

Scott is howling and Allison is trying to say something, Derek doesn't register what. Can't react at all.

There's another heartbeat in the room, quick and unfamiliar, young. Derek turns his head slowly, as though the thickness of the air was physical texture, halting him. There's a young woman there, handcuffed to piping in the wall. Her face is streaked with mascara and she's trying to yell through a gag.

Derek hears Scott snarling, the soft ripping-skin sound of his claws coming out. He jumps at the woman, but doesn't make it. Something pins him to the wall. An arrow: Allison's.

Derek cannot make sense of anything. He rises (slow, so slow), walks to that woman. Now that he's closer he can smell Martien all over her, strong enough to cut through the blood. She's struggling, trying to scream. Derek can barely hear her at all, her voice muffled by the gag and some choking grayness that seemed to have settled over him. He can't hear Allison and Scott, either. The world fades into silence.

And a heartbeat, faint but familiar, coming from a closed door to Derek's right.

That one is locked. Derek thinks it must have been heavy from the _thump_ it makes hitting the ground. And there, wrapped in packing tape and gagged, Stiles stares at Derek with huge eyes.

Derek manages one step before his knees give. He reaches, claws out, to tear through the tape binding Stiles to the chair. 

When Stiles' hand is free he puts it, shaking and clumsy, over Derek's head. Derek closes his eyes and rests his face over Stiles' knee, wrapping his fingers around Stiles' calf. Listens to the rush of blood in Stiles' veins, and the heady beat of his heart.

When Scott and Allison come to them, the young woman is behind them. Derek hasn't moved, doesn't know if he can just yet. 

"So, can somebody please tell me what the _fuck_ this was supposed to be?" Stiles apparently got the gag off with his right hand, since the left hasn't moved from Derek's scalp.

It's the woman who answers. "I don't know. I was just here for the real estate agency when these _freaks_ came in with two unconscious guys." She sounds close to hyperventilating.

"I found a wallet on the body," Allison says, quiet. "I know him. He works for my dad, I think. Worked."

Derek feels a shudder go through Stiles body. "Let me guess." Stiles' voice is hoarse. "The freaks undressed me, put my clothes on the other guy, tied you up and tore him apart while you watched?"

The woman swallowed. "Then they. They."

"Martien must have rubbed herself all over her," Scott says with barely disguised rage. "So she'd smell like her pack."

It's not hard to piece together, even in Derek's present state. Kill a hunter, make him look like a member of Derek's pack, leave an innocent human smelling like Martien nearby and let Derek and Scott kill her in their rage over the loss of their pack mate. Force a confrontation with the hunters and attack both groups while they were otherwise engaged.

But they haven't accounted for Allison, or for Derek to be incapacitated with... whatever that was. Stronger than grief, which Derek is familiar with, thanks. It seemed like the entire world might as well have died with Stiles.

Finally Derek finds it in him to stand up. He can only force his eyes away from Stiles because he can hear him breathing. "We're going to find Martien." His voice is deadly quiet. "And we're going to drive her pack off our territory."

~~

They get as far as the building's door before running into Martien's second. She's holding both hands up, a white handkerchief held in one.

Stiles, leaning on Derek since he's still a little woozy, groans. "You expect us to trust you? Seriously?"

Kenny looks at Derek, expression serious. "We didn't realize he was your mate. We didn't mean any harm."

Scott snorts incredulously. Stiles says, "Mate?" 

Derek just glares at her, incapable of summoning anything like a sufficient response. His claws are crawling out, his fangs bared at her.

"My second speaks for me," Donna says, materializing out of the shadows before them. Derek didn't even hear her approach. "We've made a grievous error in judgment. We would never threaten an Alpha's mate. To apologize, we will retreat now, and give your pack some time to regroup."

She doesn't look all that repentant to Derek. Especially when she adds, "Not for long, though. I suggest you get your territory in better shape; if we're not back here by next year, someone else will be."

Still, Derek lets her go, thrusts his arm out to stop Scott when he moves to lunge. It might have to do with the way Derek's skin feels newly-formed, fragile, like a just-healed burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a badly-mauled dead (OC) body, lots of blood, and Derek freaking out over thinking Stiles is dead.
> 
> Next part is going to be longer, Stiles-POV, and contain a bunch of cuddling and sex. I'm looking for someone to beta for it, and potentially future Sterek fics as well - any takers? *hopeful puppy-eyes*


	6. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has sex in it! And not even underage sex, since Stiles is *points to chapter title*. Also contains cuddling. And ~FEELINGS.
> 
> My deepest thanks to everyone who offered to beta, and most especially to christycorr who wound up actually doing it. <3

So: kidnapped, forced to listen to a guy getting gutted, cocooned in tape and his jeep is still lost out in the forest. Stiles is thoroughly _done_ with today, alright. He's about to turn in when the sensors he installed outside his window go off. Stiles sighs and gets up.

It's not the first time Stiles opens the window to behold the common creeperwolf in his natural habitat. At this point, Stiles just shakes his head and says, "Come inside.” Derek looks at him like a cat startled in mid-stalk. “You'll fall and I'll have to scrape wolfy splatter from the sidewalk.”

Derek looks down. “From here? The fall would be nothing.” But he climbs inside Stiles' window, even so.

"Figure of speech, dude.” Stiles is halfway back to his computer chair when the adrenaline high finally dies on him, sudden, and he changes track to the bed. “Mmkay, I'm gonna crash now. You do whatever you like. Play Call of Duty, help yourself to my porn folder, just mhmm.” The last few words are a mushy mumble made into the pillow. Whatever. He's sure Derek got the gist.

Derek snorts. “There's nothing I want in your porn folder.”

Stiles turns to his side and mumbles, “That stings, man. I got excellent taste.”

Derek doesn't dignify that with a reply. Just as well, since then Stiles would have had to answer and he is so fucking tired he doesn't think his jaw even works anymore. He's officially too wiped to complain about how wiped he is. 

You'd think that being so tired that he can't even _speak_ would mean Stiles falling asleep right away. Ha. 

Stiles' eyelids slide halfway open. “Turn it off,” he moans, waving his hand ineffectually at the red glare. So he can talk after all; his mouth feels like a disembodied shell of its former self, but hey, so long as it's still working.

"What.” Derek's voice is dead flat. 

Stiles chooses, optimistically, to parse that as a question. "Your eyes. Fuck, they're worse than a LED display. At least my alarm clock isn't secretly judging me. I don't think,” he adds, with sudden doubt. His alarm clock may well, in fact, judge him. God knows Stiles has no compunctions about hitting the snooze button.

"I can't turn my _eyes_ off.” Red glare notwithstanding, Derek sounds pissed but only normal-pissed, not grievous-bodily-harm pissed. 

Still, Stiles proceeds with caution. "You can close them,” he coaxes. “Sleep, even.” God, sleep would be good. Stiles has no idea how he's even still talking right now. Every other muscle in his body has given up the ghost. “Derek. _Sleep_.”

Derek's silent for a long moment. Then he mutters, "I'm not going to sleep in your damned office chair.”

Stiles flips the covers, because that's the sort of giving person he is. The sort who wants to sleep without Derek giving him the Demonic Alpha Glare of Doom, anyway, and is willing to sacrifice a bit of bed space for this end. He does it because he's tired and beyond giving a shit, because it's sort of funny to his half-comatose brain to suggest Derek Hale share an actual bed with him.

He really doesn't expect Derek to accept.

It takes Stiles a few minutes to parse what is actually happening, a dizzy-happy minute of _hey, no more glare, sleep now?_ , a moment of confusion at the sounds of zippers sliding and cloth rustling, and then straight-up _what the **fuck**_ as Derek slides in beside him.

It passes, though, and Stiles is really too fucking worn out to say anything about it. Besides, he did offer.

~~

Derek isn't there in the morning. Which is probably good, Stiles thinks. Last night... see, the entire previous day was like one long exercise in fucked-up-ness, so anything unusual may well be discarded as a result of deadly peril and adrenaline drop.

_Right?_ Stiles mouths at himself in the mirror, then makes a face because he accidentally swallowed some toothpaste.

Right. Only not.

"So, on a scale of one to apocalypse, how bad would you say yesterday was?” Stiles says when Scott answers his phone. 

"Dude, it's _ten AM_ ,” Scott says, and Stiles attempts to convert time into danger rating for a moment before he understands what Scott actually said. Though it does help that Scott follows it up with, “Why are you calling me before noon when we don't have school _or_ monsters to deal with?” 

Stiles twists his mouth. “You could count my existential crisis as a monster. An allegorical monster. Doubts are its claws.”

" _What_ ,” Scott says, like Derek all over again, except Scott probably doesn't know what _existential_ means.

"C'mon, gimme a rating.” Stiles raps on the table. “Was it a five? Or more like a seven? I was legit mistaken-for-dead back there, that's gotta rate a six at least.” It was bad enough to get Derek all red-eyed and at Stiles' window for no clear reason, after all.

"I don't know,” Scott groans. “Six and a half?”

Stiles drums his fingers against the kitchen table. "You didn't even think about it, you're just making up numbers.”

"Dude, who's the one that woke me up for an _apocalypse rating_?” 

Stiles starts to say how that's totally an appropriate thing to do, they should quantify their experiences and maybe write a book or at least a blog, names changed to protect the remaining innocents, but Scott hangs up on him. Rude.

~~

The rest of the day is fairly productive. Stiles buys food and fills out college applications and posts some inflammatory entries to a not-at-all-about-werewolves forum. _Martien group:_ he types, _out of their depths and up to irresponsible actions,_ which may or may not be forum-slang for _underhanded bitches tried to take over our territory_. He gets a few sympathetic replies, which is good news. Nobody likes a trespasser in the werewolf world.

(In spite of everything, Stiles kind of loves that the phrase _werewolf world_ has unironic relevance to his life. It's the little things that make it all worthwhile.)

But then it's evening, Stiles has pretty much blown through his to-do list, and he needs something to keep focus on before he tears down the walls in sheer frustrated boredom. Scott's not answering his phone. Stiles' dad isn't home. Stiles is contemplating driving up to Deaton's when Derek climbs in his window.

"Dude,” Stiles says reprovingly.

"Not dude,” Derek counters, then slumps ever-so-slightly. “I thought I'd save you the trouble of inviting me in.”

"That's not really how inviting works,” Stiles says, “ _dude_.” But he gives in after that, since Derek kind of looks like hell and Stiles would rather not have dinner alone. “C'mon downstairs. There's chilli.”

~~

Now that Stiles isn't dead on his feet, though, he's got questions. He waves his fork at Derek. “So what I want to know is, why did they leave?”

Derek stares at him. Stiles stares right back, letting that awkward silence really sink into place.

Eventually, Derek sighs and says, “You were right there. You heard what they had to say.”

Uh, which is Stiles' point. “She called me your mate. What the hell does that mean?”

Derek arches an eyebrow. And, alright, maybe in all his research on werewolves Stiles did run into some pertinent points on this subject. Some of which may have ended up in his porn folder.

So much for Derek not finding anything interesting there, at least. 

“Okay, and they came to the conclusion that I was yours... how?”

This time, Derek's silence is the kind that promises information if Stiles is patient. Stiles stifles a smirk and digs into his chilli, because multitasking is important.

"They were watching my reactions,” Derek says, eventually. “The Martien second was probably on look-out, to see that nothing went wrong.”

Which is no kind of answer, really, but Derek's glare isn't forthcoming and Stiles is feeling generous. He'll get Derek to spill eventually. “Hey,” he says, “did you ever play Portal?” 

Which isn't the smoothest of segues, but between being the town's supernatural disaster squads and finals, not to mention Stiles' primary gaming partner being otherwise occupied even when _not_ busy with aforementioned disasters and exams, it's kind of been a while since Stiles had anyone to game with who wasn't an anonymous online thirteen-year-old _dick_. 

"I could play,” Derek says, a little too quick for comfort. Like he's happy for the change of subject. Stiles keeps that carefully in mind.

~~

The two-player mode is awesome, okay. Stiles is totally rubbing that in Scott's face when they next get to talk. Derek hasn't played either of the Portal games, but he's a quick study and crazy intuitive about jumping. And aiming the portal gun. The way he almost cracks a smile when GLaDOS makes a particularly biting comment might cause Stiles' little android to plummet from a really tall platform to his virtual death.

Derek's almost-smile turns into an actual smirk at that.

"You do realize this is supposed to be cooperative play, right?” Stiles glances at Derek and sighs. “You know what, never mind, forgot who I'm talking to.”

The smile vanishes. Stiles maybe regrets that a little, bad as it was for his composure. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Stiles gulps. Derek's voice has gone all deceptively soft, and Stiles has... reactions to that. He's a growing boy, okay, highly impressionable, and Hollywood is very persistent about eroticising the bad boy stereotype.

_He wasn't always bad,_ Stiles thinks without meaning to, and then he has to talk fast or his mind will take him the rest of the way down memory lane, which would be bad. Thither be dragons.

“Cooperation,” Stiles says, sing-song and intentionally annoying, “may be defined as the process of working or acting together, sharing resources and _knowledge_ to achieve a common goal.”

Derek gives him a skeptic look. 

Stiles deflates a little bit. “Okay, yes, I memorized bits of the dictionary. That sort of thing happens when you have a father that goes on stake-outs with you asleep in the back seat and nothing else to do.” Derek raises _both_ eyebrows at that; damn, those things are eloquent. “Shut up, like you're such a shining example of fine parenting.”

Which... okay, Stiles shouldn't have said that. Stiles knows, now, that there is such a thing as the smallest, indivisible unit of time, and he's going to define it as the time between that sentence passing his lips and his brain catching up on what an absolutely _shitty_ thing that is to say to Derek.

Derek, however, merely blinks. “My parents were fine,” he says after a moment. “My mom used to be friends with yours.”

Stiles swallows through the instinctive hurt of anyone mentioning his mom. Says, “Yeah, I remember. Everyone used to be friends with my mom.”

Even Derek. Who nods, like he doesn't remember Stiles' first day at the library, when his mom led him by the hand to an older, shy-looking boy, and said, “Won't you look after my Stiles for me, Derek?”

Derek had liked Stiles' mom. Everyone did. Stiles appreciates that Derek hung around with him for even those short few months after she died. It was a kind thing to do for the memory of a dead woman.

On the screen, Derek's robot slides into slippery death. Stiles jerks, moving back to stare at the screen. “Restart?”

Derek nods again, slowly. “Sure.”

~~

They get tired of Portal. Eventually. Stiles' grip of time may be a bit shaky right now. Near-death experiences do that to him, he's found.

Derek doesn't say anything, so it's Stiles who finally notices that's it's one AM. He jumps when his eyes catch the clock, racing to his cellphone. Derek's staring at him, eyebrows bunched up all caterpillar-like, while Stiles frantically turns his cellphone back on.

He loads his messages, exhales shakily when he gets the one from his dad. “He's in Fresno overnight,” Stiles says. “Probably has a trial in the morning or something.”

Derek keeps looking at him. “So you're here all by yourself.”

"Well, not right _now_ ,” Stiles says, peeved for no reason he can understand. “I mean. You're here. And you're actually halfway decent company, it turns out. Who knew?”

"You shouldn't be alone right now,” Derek says. 

Stiles gapes. “Was I on mute or something? I could've sworn I just said that I'm _not_ alone, because you! Are right here, right now!” 

"I _wish_ you had a mute button,” Derek grumbles, and Stiles knows Derek knows Stiles can hear him, so that's just rude. “You should call Scott or something when I leave. You really shouldn't be alone.”

"Oh,” Stiles says, and it comes out smaller than he meant. “You're leaving?”

It's just odd, okay, for Derek to suddenly decide to act like a normal human being who doesn't randomly spend the night in teenagers' rooms. Stiles doesn't cope well with change, his therapist said that more than once.

Derek doesn't answer. They stare at each other, silent and weird, until the screen turns itself off. 

Stiles sighs. The epic rant he's been carefully composing collapses on itself. He just says, “If you're going, you should head out now. You shouldn't drive when you're tired.”

"I'm not tired,” Derek says, like some sort of challenge. “You are, though.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then thinks better of denying it. His throat clicks when he tries to talk, too dry. “Yeah. Think I'll head to bed.”

"I could stay until McCall gets here.” There's something not right about Derek's voice. Too soft.

"Or you could. Just stay.” Stiles blinks, then backpaddles as fast as he can. “Ahahah. I think I really am tired. I might actually be hallucinating. I think I thought you were. Someone. Whom I could ask to stay. You know, I really think I should go straight to bed.”

Derek doesn't look angry. Like, at all, which is why it takes Stiles a moment to understand Derek said, “I could be.” 

He's quiet saying that, too, like he forgot Stiles doesn't have werewolf hearing. Or like he didn't really want Stiles to listen.

Never mind. Stiles has had his share of mortifying conversation for one night. “I'm going to bed. You can borrow a pair of my sweats to sleep in, if you want.” He heads up the stairs before he can catch Derek's expression, which is probably for the best.

~~

It's funny, because Stiles actually is pretty tired. Not drop-dead tired like the other night, though, which means he's all too aware of the fact that there's another body in his bed. 

To Stiles' slight dismay, he kind of likes it. Derek's big, and warm, and doesn't growl or even move when Stiles accidentally-on-purpose rests his shoulder over Derek's chest. Stiles needs to find out whether Derek's chest is as firm as it looks, okay. For science.

For the record? It totally is. It's better than Stiles' mattress. Stiles is seriously considering upgrading his bed.

Of course, that just means he starts thinking about sleeping on Derek on a regular basis, which brings on the thought of _sleeping_ with Derek, which, no. Stiles has already done the 'little boy creeping out older boy with his unrequited crush' thing once. A repeat is most definitely not necessary.

So he starts talking. It's that or hump Derek. “So if you're a pack of assbutts infringing on another pack's territory, and you think some random hyperactive kid is the Alpha's mate. What would lead you to draw that kind of conclusion?”

Derek growls. “Stiles.”

"Dude,” Stiles says, just to get that extra growl, “did you just say I was the reason they thought I was your mate? Way to blame the victim.”

Possibly Stiles spontaneously develops were-senses, because he'd swear he can _hear_ Derek rolling his eyes. “It was your heartbeat, okay?” Derek snaps. “I could hear it. They didn't expect me to.”

"Huh.” Stiles digests this. He was in the recording studio, after all, which was supposed to be soundproof. “So, this means you have better hearing than the average werewolf? That's pretty neat.”

In the ensuing silence, Stiles becomes aware once more that he's lying over Derek's chest, may have crawled in tiny increments until his torso was flush with Derek's. He doesn't remember doing that.

He opens his mouth once more in a futile attempt to distract them both when Derek's heavy hand lands on the back of Stiles' neck, Derek's fingers gently rubbing at his nape.

"Hmrrr,” Stiles says, or something along those lines. It's late. He's not going to subject a guy to a third degree because his ears are awesome. Stiles is totally beyond that.

~~

Stiles is totally a liar. He's at peace with that.

He's not sure Derek is, though, which is one reason he stops at a convenience store before descending on Derek's current residence with a white-noise generator and his fully-charged, full-of-noisy-music cellphone.

The other reason is that Stiles needs plausible deniability. Derek has just moved (again), because hunters found his previous hole-in-the-ground (again). The pack is trying to keep the location of their current headquarters on the down-low, and the snort Boyd made when Stiles referred to it as such was utterly uncalled for.

So Stiles parks next to the 7-11, to keep appearances, and gets a pack of Cheetos, because he knows the value of a good bribe.

Derek's place is an abandoned ( _again_ ) water treatment facility. Which means a functioning bathroom, at least, for all that the place is moldy and drippy like nobody's business. Stiles has no idea how anyone could sleep there with normal hearing, never mind werewolf senses, and triple-never-mind Derek's apparent super-lycan abilities. Stiles walks in slowly, putting his cellphone on flashlight mode. This place would probably be a deathtrap if the electricity were actually on.

Predictably, Derek materializes within minutes. Less predictably, his first words are _not_ “You shouldn't be here.”

Instead he says, “Your dad come back yet?”

"Yeah, this morning.” Stiles is speaking a little slowly, a little weirded out. “Did you need something from him?”

By cellphone light, Derek's scowl looks really impressive. Dramatic shadows and everything. “No, but you do. You shouldn't be alone.”

"You keep saying that,” Stiles says, exasperated. “Why do you keep saying that? Especially when I'm not! Actually! Alone!” He punctuates those words with pokes to Derek's chest because whatever, Derek totally scritched him to sleep last night.

"I say it because it's important,” Derek says, his eyes sharp and too green for Stiles' peace of mind. “Remember how you nearly died the other day?”

"Remember how I didn't, in fact, die?” Stiles counters, getting right up in Derek's face. “Remember how you keep staying with me because you say someone should? I'm starting to think you're just making up excuses for yourself.”

A muscle ticks in Derek's jaw. Uh-oh.

"Why are you here?” Derek asks, and huh, that's actually better than Stiles expected. 

"I wanted to see how good your hearing is,” Stiles says, holding up the white noise generator. 

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “No.”

"Oh, c'mon!” Stiles wheedles. “It's for science!”

Derek glares at him. “Funny, I don't see a control group. Or a hypothesis.”

"Shut up.” Stiles' shoulders slump a little. “Qualitative research is totally a thing.”

"It is,” Derek agrees easily. “I'm just questioning your academic qualifications.” He leans against the wall, like he's just going to venture forth into fucking-with-Stiles territory now. 

Oh God. No. Don't think about fucking. Don't. 

Stiles swallows. He can't tear his eyes away from the easy cling of Derek's t-shirt, the muscle definition he can see all too well through thin cotton. “I'm in high school,” Stiles protests, weakly, realizing he's not exactly helping himself when Derek smirks.

"Exactly.” Derek taps against the wall.

It's quiet but for the sound of dripping water. “Nearly finished with high school, that is,” Stiles says to offset it. Derek nods. “Practically an adult.”

Which, admittedly, is kind of a weird thing to say to an older guy whose bones you want to jump when the two of you are alone in an abandoned building. Where the older guy is squatting.

Stiles really expected at least a cursory _go away_ by now. He's not getting it, and that's perhaps the most unnerving part of an already unnerving week. He takes a step backward, comes up against the wall, and winces when he hears a crunching sound. Note to self: using your hoody as extra storage space can be a problem when you forget you stuck a bag of cheesy snacks up your shirt.

Derek's nostrils flare. “Seriously,” he says, because apparently he's allergic to question marks. The eyebrows go up again. At least Stiles can say he's getting the full Derek Hale experience.

"I thought some puffed cornmeal might make you more amenable,” Stiles says.

Derek looks like he's considering something. Then he reaches out. Stiles stares at his hand, uncomprehending. 

"Gimme,” Derek says. Stiles squirms and extracts the Cheetos. 

~~

They end up eating them in Derek's excuse for a bedroom, which is an old control room with a blanket nest on the floor, a small generator, and – holy Hallelujah – a working television. Stiles licks cheesy residue off his fingers. 

"I don't have super hearing,” Derek says. 

"Technically, you do,” Stiles says. “I mean, being a werewolf and all.” He squirms surreptitiously, trying to shake all the orange dust from his hoody to the floor without it ending up on Derek's bed.

Derek doesn't have a single crumb on him, because the universe is unfair. “Yeah. But it's normal for a werewolf.”

Stiles nods slowly. On the screen, a meerkat looks up, head shifting from side to side. “Yet you heard me in the room that other werewolves judged soundproof.”

"That's not—” Derek's eyes flash. He visibly subdues himself before saying, “You know how sometimes, when there's music you can just barely hear, you catch little fragments of it?”

Stiles tries to nod and keep still at the same time. It probably just makes him look twitchy.

"And then, you recognize the song,” Derek continues, “and suddenly it's like someone turned the volume up, because your brain is making up all the missing parts.”

"So,” Stiles says, cautious, “you're saying you found me because you know what I sound like?”

"Your heartbeat,” Derek bites out. 

Huh. “Because I'm in your pack,” Stiles tries. “Except Martien knew that, and she still figured I'm your mate.”

Derek's utterly quiet and still. 

Stiles fidgets. “Would all the recent sleepovers maybe have something to do with that?”

Derek turns on him, sudden, and Stiles' heart skips a beat. For more than one reason, if he's honest. “You. Almost. Died.”

"Yeah, that's kind of a regular feature of our lives at this point.” Stiles stares firmly at the screen. There's a lion hunting an antelope, now. “Did you know that the whole Alpha-Omega thing isn't how real wolf packs work?”

"Really.” Derek's tone is dry, but he sounds just as relieved as Stiles at the change of subject.

"No. Apparently in actual wolf packs, the Alphas are the parents, and the Betas are their children. That's why only the Alphas mate, to prevent incest.” Stiles crunches loudly on a Cheeto. “Not sure what Omegas are supposed to be. The uncle nobody likes, maybe.”

It takes Stiles a second to get that the small, dry sound he's hearing is Derek's laugh.

"That's what it's like,” Derek says, after a few more minutes of silence. “What it should be like. Family, not just a fight that doesn't end.”

He sounds frustrated. Stiles can't really blame him. “Some families are like that,” he offers.

Derek's mouth is a grim line. “Mine didn't use to be.”

Hearing him say that hurts. Stiles isn't even sure why, it's not like he's not long familiar with the walking tragedy that is Derek Hale. It ought to have turned funny, by now.

Okay, sometimes it is. But not when faced so closely with Derek's still-raw grief. So Stiles does the only thing he can think of and pushes Derek down into the nest of blankets, crawling awkwardly over him, and curling his fingers around Derek's shoulders.

"Stiles.” Derek's voice is tight, wary.

"You can call this payback, if you want.” For the last few nights. For saving Stiles' ass repeatedly over the last few years. For a summer's afternoon in the woods when Derek held a little boy through his grief.

"Wolves don't really mate for life, either,” Stiles says some time later. He eyes are closed, face mashed against Derek's chest. “They're serial monogamists, like humans.”

"Humans do mate for life, sometimes,” Derek says.

Stiles is about to contradict this when he thinks of his dad and deflates. “Yeah.” Scott and Allison too, probably. “So that's all there is to it? Mates just means partners?”

Derek lets out a slow breath. “Sometimes.”

Stiles waits. He doesn't even care if more knowledge is forthcoming, really, he'd just like to stay where he is and not move. Like, ever.

"And sometimes, you just know.” Derek's hand settles on the back of Stiles' neck again. There's a brief warmth on Stiles' forehead, just at the hairline, and Stiles realizes that _Derek just kissed him_. On the face.

"Like love at first sight?” Stiles is just barely not stammering. His hands clutch Derek's shoulders like a lifeline.

"Like instinct,” Derek says, and guides Stiles into a kiss. A real kiss. On the mouth, and Stiles is freaking out at so hard about _not sucking at this_ that he forgets to kiss back.

Derek's hand goes lax, and Stiles pushes back. Derek's eyes are red again, but he doesn't look angry. _Instinct_ , Stiles thinks.

"Are you telling me that this.” Stiles tries to will his voice into steadiness. “This has been going on since I was _eleven_?”

"No,” Derek says. Stiles knows better than to breathe out in relief, so he's not surprised when Derek adds, “Long before that.”

Stiles' breath is doing funny things. "Okay, for the record? This is kind of fucked up.”

“Tell me about it.” Derek's hand tightens again, for a brief moment, then lets go completely.

Stiles is looking at Derek, though, and Derek's shaking. He's flattening his arms on the mattress, turning away from Stiles like a he's trying to make himself smaller. 

"I knew I had to stay away from you.” Derek's tone is too familiar; it's the one that invariably marks _oh shit, we're screwed_. 

Stiles gestures wildly at the room around them. "Yeah, I don't think this qualifies as _staying away_.”

"You have to go.” Derek sounds frantic now, like they're chased by hunters rather than safe in his own bed. “I can't let go, so you have to. I thought you were dead.” The last few words come out with keening sound that neatly cuts Stiles' heart in two.

Then Derek wrenches himself back, like he's giving Stiles one last chance to escape and Stiles just – attacks him, there's no other word. It's probably not sexy at all, the way he mashes their mouths together, but Stiles is _hungry_ , can't help it, fueled by literally years of fantasies and an ache to somehow make it up for both of them. To make it better.

Derek – fuck, Derek tastes as good as he smells as good as he looks, and it's all fantastic. Stiles is rigid and needy, just from this, struggling not to rub off against Derek's leg like the worst dog/teenager joke in history. Then Derek fucking _growls_ , hiking Stiles close so that the pressure is _perfect_ , letting Stiles ride against Derek's hip until he's almost, almost--

Then Derek rears up, flipping them and tearing away from Stiles. Stiles flails at him. “What _now_?”

Derek rucks Stiles' shirt up, putting one hand on Stiles' chest while the other creeps into Stiles' pants. This, Stiles is absolutely fine with. More than fine. Derek's hand is big and warm against Stiles' dick, fingers curling up strong and perfect around him. Stiles' neck arches back and he tries not to shout, mouth wide-open but silent as he comes.

His endurance could probably use a little work. Derek, however, doesn't seem to be complaining. The hand on Stiles' chest leaves exactly for the amount of time it takes Derek to flick his own pants open – which is like, microseconds – then it's back and Derek's jacking himself with his other hand, still slick with Stiles' come.

Stiles takes a few seconds to wind down, closed-eyed, taking in the desperate sound of Derek's breath. It starts to speed up and Stiles realizes that Derek is going to come without Stiles' active participation, which, worlds of _no_.

He pulls away. Derek's breaths stutter, his hand chasing Stiles' skin. Stiles catches it, places it back on his neck, grinning when he feels Derek's fingers settling on his pulse-point. Bingo. 

He still feels the need to add caveats. "This isn't permission to choke or push, got it?”

"Loud and clear.” Apparently, pre-orgasmic gasping makes Derek's voice hoarse and _even hotter_ , jeez, Stiles did not think this was possible. Derek's hand is still moving on his cock, which Stiles takes a good long, hard look at. _Long_ and _hard_ being the operative words; again, jeez.

Stiles doesn't even realize what he's doing until his mouth is on the base of Derek's cock, placing a sucking kiss where it meets the rest of his body. Stiles licks up, tasting sweat and his own come, tongue sliding between Derek's fingers, circling the head of his cock.

He puts his lips around it, just the tip, and sucks without thinking about it. Then he moans, startled, lips pursing further and moving down; it's hot in his mouth and living and _Derek_. Stiles did not expect to _want_ this so much. To desire Derek's cock in his mouth, perfectly on a creature-comfort level. It feels _right_.

Derek's hand tightens around his neck, and Stiles is about to go over his caveats again when there's come in his mouth. More come, that is. Also, Derek's cock is twitching and hardening even further, which requires that Stiles grab said cock for a better feel.

Turns out that feeling another person come is pretty damn cool.

~~

So, yeah, good thing that the place has a functioning bathroom. Even if the _bath_ part is just an emergency shower and the water is icy cold.

Stiles comes out, shivering. The bed is inviting and full of Derek, sprawled out lazy and tempting, but Stiles finds his attention diverted by the box beside the bed.

There's books in it, something cloth-bound and old-looking and a copy of _The Blue Fairy Book_ , what the ever-living fuck. And beneath them....

Stiles picks up the copy of _Where the Wild Things Are_. Leafs to the first page, where the _property of Beacon Hills library_ stamp is crossed out and _annual library sale_ is written below it. “This used to be my favorite book,” Stiles says, quiet.

"I remember,” Derek says.

Stiles turns his eyes on him. _Really?_ he thinks, somewhere between pleased and furious. It was easier to think it was always nothing, that Derek just forgot. That Stiles simply had a penchant for crushing on people who didn't know he existed. 

Derek's eyes are on him now, though. Seriously on. Like they might consider taking up residence and maybe buying a couple properties as an investment, too.

It's a compelling look and Stiles is cold. So he slips back under the covers and flips to the book's first page.

"The night Max wore his wolf suit,” he reads. Derek's head settles on his shoulder and Derek's arm wraps around his waist, slotting into place like finally getting that long piece in Tetris. “And made mischief of one kind and another his mother called him 'WILD THING!'...”


End file.
